


Changers

by annhellsing



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Mentions of the Lone Wanderer Being the Best Mom to Bryan, Morning Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 22:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20553674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/pseuds/annhellsing
Summary: Butch learns that love is a changer.





	Changers

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in a mad rush to fill a prompt on tumblr and it ended up long enough to be its own one-shot!! enjoy!!

A house stands in Megaton, packed with junk from travels. At least your souvenirs are decent enough to be interesting, Butch rifles through the filing cabinet under the pretence of looking for caps. 

Instead, he touches a Deathclaw egg for the first time, handles it gently with an expression of obvious discomfort before closing its designated drawer. He moves up one, tugs it open and doesn’t stick his hand inside so quickly.

Nothing nefarious lives in here, however. Just an oddly pristine Mr. Handy figure and a busted scrap of black leather. 

Wait a second. 

He’s more careful that he thinks he ought to be, pushing treasures to the side so he can pull out the jacket that’s so familiar to him. Butch hears you downstairs as he runs his fingers over the embroidered snake on the back. 

You hand a tin lunchbox off to Bryan, telling him not to be too late for school this morning if he can help it. There’s a half-hearted promise somewhere in the way he thanks you and says goodbye. Butch isn’t so absorbed in memory lane that he can’t hear you kiss the little punk on the forehead. 

He doesn’t really want to know why a barely-twenty wastelander would take on the kind of responsibility you have. But Megaton’s better than Rivet City, in Butch’s opinion. You might’ve showed him that. 

[[MORE]]  
There’s footsteps on the creaky staircase. You stand in the hall, watching him through the open door to the guest room. He’s been poking around with a certain amount of permission, but Butch freezes when he sees you for the first time this morning. 

The neckline of your bathrobe dips just enough to show the top of a red baby-doll. He swallows hard, momentarily forgetting what he wanted to rub in your face. But you seem not to notice. You wander into what might be his bedroom now. 

Hey, he thinks, at least you look happy to see him.

“You kept my jacket, eh?” Butch doesn’t need to ask, but he phrases it as such. He holds it out, Tunnel Snakes logo face-up. You give a shrug. 

“Hung on to a lotta crap from the first couple months,” you tell him with a teasing nonchalance. “Made me feel more at home under the big sky.” 

“Right,” Butch says, sounding flat but unconvinced. He drops the jacket back on top of the Mr. Handy doll and closes the drawer. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a hoarding problem.” 

“Well,” you start, “I think we’ve both earned a little excess.” 

“You said it,” he turns to lean against the filing cabinet, dropping the pretence of devil’s advocate. “Not that there’s much out here to be excessive with.” 

“I’ve found ways,” you tell him with a hidden smile in your eyes. “Once you redefine what luxury is, you’ll always be in its lap.” 

“Oh, I know you have,” Butch grins with obvious implications, reaching out and hooking a finger around the neckline of your robe. “That had to be worth a fortune once upon a time, huh?” 

You put your hand over his, not quite tugging it away but merely holding it in place. The other girls, the ones back in the vault never let him get away with this brand of joke. But you, you always laughed. You played along. 

“Butch,” you say his name with a fox-like smirk that makes his heart plunge straight to his stomach. “You should see the panties it came with.” 

Somewhere between closing the door and backing up towards the bed, the joke gets serious. You’re not sure why he has to jump through so many hoops, play it off like this is some kind of game. He’s seen you naked before, what’s the big deal?

You take your pipboy off your arm, set it with a clunk on the bedside crate. He watches you struggle to reach for the radio knob and takes up the task, fiddling with the dial until Billie starts singing. 

That always makes you happy, Butch isn’t sure he likes how quick he’ll jump at the chance to make it so. 

You’ve got your robe off your shoulders when he looks back. Upon closer inspect, your nightie isn’t in the best condition. It looks a little like his jacket, well-worn. 

Well-loved. 

He lunges at you all the same, Butch can’t help it. Your hand rests on his cheek as he kisses you, pressing your back against the metal footboard. There’s another hand at his neck, however, tugging at the zipper on his blue vault suit. 

It isn’t like this is the first time for him, not even the first time with you. But Butch still tense up just slightly when you move to undress him. He breaks the kiss, leans back far around to flash a cocky smile and slides the zipper down his chest. 

You don’t have the patience to theorize what his problem is. Maybe you’ll ask in the afterglow. 

Butch won’t tell you either way, you’re familiar with how he guards his secrets. But the thought does occur to you as he leans in for another, softer kiss that he might not know what to do when things get this good. People’ve gotten bored of him before. 

You kiss him again and it’s effortless, maybe even a little indulgent. He feels your hand again, a little cold against his warm chest. Butch pushes himself back against you, demanding more of that gentle affection. 

He feels you smile against his mouth, you try pushing the top of his suit off his shoulders just as his hands find their way up the skirt of your babydoll. Butch is interested only in feeling the soft curve of your thighs, for now at least, and seems content not to move any further. 

The ramshackle way he fucks has rounded out significantly in the face of someone with more experience. He’s not a bad fuck, never was, but he’s improved with practice. Butch always was one to learn by example, your patience has thoroughly rubbed off on him. 

You shift, moving to the right and sitting open-legged on the bed. He’s encouraged to follow after kicking off his vault suit and boots, settling between your thighs. Your robe’s on the ground, nightie pushed halfway up your stomach. Draped against the headboard, you look a little like one of the girls in his magazines. 

But you’re not paper, you’re quickly-warming skin and a curved smile. He’s pulled back against you like you want him to be there. He’s explored like you want to know him. 

Butch plays off his sudden urge to hide as an attempt to kiss your neck. He puts his lips to your pulse point but only manages to stay for a few seconds. Your hand on the back of his head tugs him away, decidedly, and he looks at you with unabashed confusion. 

“Let me look at you,” you tell him, your hand to his cheek again. He never knows what to say when the joke gets real, all his quips die easily. Maybe it’ll get easier, he hopes it does. He wants to tell you how beautiful you look. 

Instead, Butch nods once and tries to ignore the desire to close his eyes. You’re staring at him, all lustful and appreciative. He’s not familiar with reciprocating, but it’s not hard to get used to. To be looked at like one’s wanted is definitely new, but not unwelcome. 

He looks back at you, hoping that his simultaneously extensive and limited experience with sexual intimacy effects you as much as it does him. You touch him slowly, finding the sensitive spot on his hipbones easily enough. Butch doesn’t mind it when you grab him, hold him, move him in the direction that you want. 

His hands push again under your babydoll, retracing the expanse of your stomach and sides. It’s like he wants to prove to you he can go slow, feeling you with an obvious but respectful desire. You’re impressed, absolutely, Butch doesn’t jump immediately to thrusting his hips against yours with reckless abandon. 

But he’s hard, you can feel him. Not that it takes much to rile him up, you remember pushing him against the wall in the lower sections of the vault. He’d stiffen under your hand with a reliability you’d tease him for. 

There’s a fair amount of teasing now, mind you. You flash him hungry smiles, look him up and down like he’s being appraised. But pushing Butch too hard makes him a wallflower, knowing when to let up is key. 

Knowing when to let him in is the hardest part. So you push yourself forward, urge this party on with a decisive roll of your hips. Butch hisses, looking down at where you press against him. He’s been ready a while, he lets himself rock back. 

Butch’s confidence rears its head as he rids you of your panties. You were right, they’re nice enough that ripping them will get him thrown out. So he throws them down with the rest of his clothes, red satin clashing horribly with blue spandex. But you’re naked and excited, ready to moan his name when he finally reaches between your legs. 

He’s got a way of doing things that makes you giggle. Butch squeezes at your right breast, pushes his left hand against your core and drag his middle finger over your clit. It’s not so much formulaic as it is comfortable, a reliable technique that makes your toes curl. 

You encourage him with little thrusts of your hips, doing your best to grab at the band of his underwear and shove it down. You want to join the fun, too. 

“Shit,” he huffs, breaking the still-maintained eye contact that’s becoming easier for him to stomach. Butch looks down at your hand, no longer cold wrapped around him and his breathing goes uneven. 

“Your reactions are priceless,” you tell him with a hint of that wolfish smile. He looks back at up you, grinning back and rolling his finger against your clit a little faster. 

You lean back against the footboard, your pleased sigh momentarily drowning out Billie.

Butch shifts closer, like he’s trying not to lose the strength necessary to hold himself up. He leans against you, nudging his forehead against yours. He’s wanting, but not enough to be rough about it. He relocates his hand and presses one finger inside you at a time. 

You go a little giddy, then, reaching for him with a mind to keep him close. An arm’s thrown around his shoulders, your arm coming to tug him against your body. So he won’t have to hold himself up all alone, you think. 

He doesn’t hide how good it feels, your fist working him over. Just as you don’t hide a thing from him. Outside, the world buzzes with radiation and dust but in the cramped guest room it buzzes with something else. Life, a little love. 

You’ve insisted as long as you’ve been out here with him that there’s nothing to worry about. The big sky won’t fall and you’ll keep him safe. Butch is close to buying it in this moment, getting close enough to tuck himself inside you. 

“Don’t worry,” you mumble to him, just like every time. He knows not to.

His eyes on yours never stray into unnerving territory. So much of what he doesn’t is an old habit, but to be looked at and to do the looking in return is entirely new. You decide you like it. Butch does, too. 

You’ve taught him a little better than Mr. Brotch about how your body works. Butch was unbearably cocky for a while, insisting he already knew the lectures were bullshit. You rolled your eyes and reminded him not to ignore your clit. 

He learned, eventually. He’s a quicker study now that he cares about making you happy. It’s not that complicated, he thinks, some sentimental music and delicate pressure on a bundle of nerves. Easy-peasy. 

Butch is grinning at you, thrusting slowly. Reckless abandon might be his baseline, but he acts almost as if he wants to impress you. 

Consider me impressed, you think. But saying it would mean you’d never hear the end of his ego.

You make your appreciation known, moving your hips back against his and running your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. 

He’s half-lying on your stomach, one arm wrapped tight around your waist. But he flicks his head back, shaking off your hand. 

“Watch it,” he warns you, “it’s a lotta work, lookin’ as good as I do.” 

“I won’t mess up your hair,” you tease, “Jesus. Have a little faith.” 

“Likely story,” he replies between audible inhales. Butch moves a little faster, like he wants to distract you. 

It works, your hand settles on the back of his neck and doesn’t encroach on his masterpiece again. You smile, how could you not? He’s given you ammunition for days, now it’s just a matter of deciding when to use it. Butch makes it so easy for you to give him hell. 

But wanting to wait until he’s a little less sensitive is most definitely a caring act. You throw yourself into the lovemaking, purposefully denying any desire to push his buttons. 

He’s close, you can tell by the way he slows down again. Butch drags his feet with his orgasms, preferring to show you a good time first. It beats having to do it after, when he’s sluggish and wanting a nap. 

His heart’s hammering against your bare chest. For a minute, he stops all together. His eyes close, you shift underneath him until you’re close enough to kiss his cheek. 

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” you tell him without a trace of irony. He looks a little taken aback, among other things. 

“Yeah?” he asks. He draws his hips back, then eases himself inside you again with a satisfied grunt. “I’m just gettin’ started.”

He doesn’t like it too rough and knows damn well that you don’t either. But Butch doesn’t have any reservations about going fast, not when he’s getting better at it. He fucks into you a little harder, making the bed shake beneath his knees. His breathing comes hard and fast, he watches as you tilt your head back. 

There’s no need for him to stop again. He’s doing good, you said so yourself. Butch thrusts, setting a pace just like how you showed him. It makes your back arch, your thighs shake. 

You come with a high, short shout. You grab him and hug him against your chest and though he slows, he doesn’t stop. Even as the glow subsides, he rocks inside you with renewed vigour. He likes saying your name, he decides, he comes a minute later and can’t keep himself from speaking it. 

Butch slumps against you, spent and nearing exhaustion at eight-thirty in the morning. He’s heavier now than when he left the vault, a combination of better resources and building muscle. You hold him against your chest, a little sore but not uncomfortably so. 

There’s a new song playing now, something about Kansas in August. It’s cheery, kind of cute. You’re only half-listening, more focused on the way that Butch’s back rises and falls as he breathes. 

He told you not to touch his hair, but a few strands of that intricate pompadour have come loose. You brush them back into place, he lets it happen. The way he leans into your hand is nearly indiscernible, Butch hopes you don’t notice. 

“So,” he says after a moment of silence. “How was it?” 

“Hey, I already told you it was good,” you remind him. “Can’t have you thinking you’re god’s gift.” 

“I know how to stay humble, babe,” he defends, but it’s only half-hearted. He smirks at you, too lazy to leave a pretty good stop to grab a cigarette. He’ll have one later, maybe. 

“You really don’t,” you reply. He’s got your palm to his cheek again, your baseline for intimacy’s a little more sophisticated than his own. 

“Listen,” he says, looking up at you like he’s considering something big. “If you wanna mess up my hair, go for it. I’m gonna have to re-do it, anyway.” 

You don’t insult him by asking if he means it. But you do smile, without an ounce of humour or malice. Your hand moves from his cheekbone yet again.

Goddammit, he thinks. Anything to make you happy.


End file.
